The bare cupboard
by Nagiru
Summary: Years later, Harry is before the cupboard. His cupboard. There are memories, there is the past, and there are admissions that, as a child, he would never make. Sometimes, the past is something to smile upon; sometimes, it is but a dark stain.


**A/N:** Written for a prompt that said to use the phrase "The cupboard is bare now" in the story. I thought of Harry. This is what came to be. This is pretty Harry-centric - and cupboard-centric, in a strange way. It discusses an abusive family, an abusive house situation, and children abuse, be warned (Dursleys. Really. It could be worse, but I decided to retain myself to facts mostly given in the books, so. Canon-compliant).

This should be situated, ah, somewhere after the 7th book, but I'm not sure when? Imagine that, because of the memories related to Number 4 Private Drive, the Dursleys decided to move away sometime after the war was over, and Harry came around to collect anything that could have been left behind. That's when this was supposed to be situated.

 **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter (books and character) do not belong to me, neither do any of the other characters. J.K. owns them, and made a fortune out of it; I don't really want any fortune, really, I just would like to find some fun writing my stories, and, if in the meantime I happen upon some reviews, why not?

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Standing before the empty, bare cupboard for the first time in years, Harry couldn't help thinking that people were often wrong — it wasn't getting beaten that made a household abusive, it was the complete thing. He couldn't remember ever getting _beaten_ from Vernon. Maybe a shove or two, a slap on the back of his head when he "loitered"… A slap on his wrist from Aunt Petunia when he was being "lazy"… But neither of them ever hit him in a way that was _too_ bad. Dudley, sometimes, when younger; he and his friends had fun chasing and kicking him, after all… But not his so-called guardians.

Even so, he could still say — now, at least, that he was older, more mature, and less afraid of being stared at — that he had had a very abusive house. Not a home, mind you. His home was, and would ever be, _Hogwarts_ ; Privet Drive was only his summerhouse. Nothing more, nothing less. Well — everything less, actually.

Here, staring at the cupboard, he was forced to think of his first ten years living with the Dursley, when he called this very cupboard ( _the cupboard under the stairs_ ) his "bedroom". When he was forced to fold himself to fit into the small, dark room where dust cloyed his nose, and spiders ran over his body, and broken toys were his only allies.

His cupboard, where he was _locked away_ whenever he was being a "freak". The cupboard where he was shoved, the door banging shut behind him, the darkness enveloping him, suffocating him. Where he would fear, shiver, tremble, cry. Where he never received a single meal, and from where he was only released twice a day to use the bathroom whenever he was "grounded".

Vernon Dursley rarely ever raised a hand to him. Harry didn't think he was better that way.

He didn't think there was a problem in helping with house chores — he liked caring for the garden, liked the feeling of sunlight on his warm skin, liked dirtying his hands and knowing this was something _he_ created. What he _didn't_ like was being treated as a slave. Being the only one forced to do _everything_ in the house, from dawn to late evening, with barely any meals and having access to only the water from the hose. He didn't like being shoved and teased and called names when he was working. He didn't like having to serve Dudley with chocolate, chips and juice when he himself had to starve and go thirsty despite being the one cooking for everyone in the "family".

He didn't like being locked away and prohibited from touching _anything_ when his relatives were away at places like the amusement park, the shopping mall, the movies. Didn't like being screamed at for showing "weakness", never mind the fact he was barely seven. Didn't like being lied at, hearing his parents were "good-for-nothing drunkards".

The cupboard was bare before his eyes — but in Harry's memory, the cupboard was filled with broken soldiers, ripped drawings made of a single color pencil, a cot with a frayed sheet, spiders that were not afraid of humans, dust stuck to the walls and the shelves. In Harry's memory, the cupboard was a prison, and also a twisted refuge from Vernon's anger.

And, in a broken, twisted, sad way, the cupboard had his best memories in this house. It was disheartening to see it now, for the single fact that this cupboard was a better _home_ than the whole of Number 4, Privet Drive around it.

What a shame.

Frowning and turning around, he decided not to think about it. The cupboard is bare now — and so is the house. No Dursley, no abusive relatives anymore. No sad memories of a muggle childhood made of anger and solitude. No one to complain about him.

The house was never more beautiful than this.


End file.
